


They Call Me Pyro

by SunnysFunny



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Gen, Post - X-Men: The Last Stand (2006)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 17:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22420060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnysFunny/pseuds/SunnysFunny
Summary: Pyro has been in a comatose state ever since Alcatraz. When he wakes, he realizes he has a lot of questions. The major question being: who am I?
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

They call me Pyro.

For someone that can't remember anything about himself . . . even that name seems out of the ordinary to me, whoever I am, that is. My eyes carefully scan the room full of people that are dressed in casual clothing. There are many faces, but I am unable to put a name to any of them. Should I be able to identify these people? When my eyes come across a pair of intense blue eyes belonging to a blonde male, my head and hands start to throb. I look away, unsure of where to place my gaze. I can feel the tension in the room and that every eye is still locked firmly on me.

\- _Twenty Five Minutes Earlier_ -

Darkness surrounds me. My eyes shift under my lids as I hear a persistent rapid beeping noise that won't go away. My eyes snap open as I deeply inhale and exhale—once in that manner—like I haven't taken a breath in a very long time. After that, the rest of my breathing remains steady and normal. My head remains on the pillow as I carefully turn it to the side in the direction of the irritating noise. I blink a few times to focus properly. I glower at the machine briefly, returning my head to its original position, the joints in my neck pop.

Is there something in my nose? Moving as little as possible, I try to touch my face, but I soon realize that I am incapable of such a simple motion because I have been restrained. Is this for my protection or theirs? I want to laugh, but I'm too weak. The bonds on my wrists seem like overkill because I doubt I could walk even if I wanted to.

I stare at the ceiling because that's my only option. I don't know how much time passes before I hear footsteps—I don't think it was long, but time is of no significance to me at this moment. Immediately someone hovers over my body and points a tiny flashlight in my eyes. ' _Yes, they work_ ,' I think, annoyed. The beeping ceases, which I am _very_ thankful for. I assume they also check my vitals and other various medical routines, but I don't care to look. Again, they hover in my field of vision blocking the ceiling, but I can see their face clearly now: female with flawless pale skin, shoulder-length brown hair and light blue eyes. I nod my head once when asked if I can hear her. She introduces herself as Dr. Moira MacTaggert and then tells me that she's going to raise the bed so that I can sit up. The faintest smile forms on my lips because my body is eager to change position. I'm not sure exactly why, but nevertheless, it feels good.

Now I can confirm that there is a tube in my nose, part of that tube rests on my chest with a piece of surgical tape to keep it secure and the rest of it disappears under the sheets. I look at my wrists; nothing different from what I had gathered earlier. I study my hands next; they look . . . raw, and all of my fingers feel stiff. There are IVs attached to my right arm. I am able to move my leg—though it feels like sandbags are on top of it—as far as I want it to go. Typically when strapped down, you weren't given much slack or else you could strangle someone with the restraint. Why would I think of something like that? Was I capable of killing someone or was it just a logical thought? I consider the leg freedom as a good sign: only mental patients needed all limbs tied down. I guess I can cross that off my list; however, I'm going to discard that conclusion; maybe I'm wrong and . . . I am psychotic. My list just keeps getting bigger and bigger, doesn't it?

I look around the room. To describe it in one word: plain, besides medical equipment. I couldn't see outside of the room because all of the shades have been pulled down. Was it done for my privacy or so I couldn't see out? Maybe a little bit of both. The door was left open, but nothing is revealed except a wall. I look at Moira and have her follow my gaze to a small water pitcher. She inserts a straw and holds it out to me, close enough so that I can reach the straw without moving an inch. I drink the cool liquid until I thought my stomach was going to burst. It feels great to get the moisture back to my lips.

"You can step in now," she announces. After everyone—and I mean _everyone_ or so it seems—settles into my room, she tells them, "He hasn't spoken a word yet, but he understands."

She must've noticed the confusion on my face, so she explains, "Pyro, you've been in a comatose state for quite some time. Your frontal lobe was hit _very_ hard at close range. Tests showed that your brain was functioning, but we weren't sure if there would be any permanent or temporary damage until you woke." She spoke softly and slowly so that I can comprehend everything being said to me.

What I learn hits me like a freight train. The tolerance I had for the audience of strangers vanishes within seconds. My heart rate must've increased because the machine starts to beep again. Remaining silent, I motion for a pad and pen. I write two words—as best I can with limited mobility—in capital letters, turning it around for the crowd to read. When no one moves, I quickly add a certain punctuation mark to make it clear I was serious, though my facial expression should coincide with what I'd jotted down. I wasn't going to be ogled at like a wild animal in a zoo! I suppose this room is my cage, for the time being, but I'm not an animal . . . Just like with every statement I make regarding myself it would be followed by a counter and this one is no different: maybe, just maybe, I was an untamable vile beast.

In the corner of my eye, I can see movement from Moira—I assume she signals them to leave. Why was my legitimate request ignored? They weren't doctors and they didn't seem happy to see me . . . but yet, she told them . . . Who are they?

I wait a few moments after the last human being exits, and I write down one question. She hesitates but keeps her gaze as she answers professionally as she should. As the answer sinks in, my gaze drifts. She waits a few moments before asking, "Do you need anything?"

I shake my head, somberly.

She did exactly what I wanted her to do without having to ask—I want, need to be alone. Closing the door behind her as she left, I hear a beep indicating the door was shut and locked successfully. I must've missed that detail when the heart monitor was screaming as if I had dropped dead earlier.

I don't know much, but this is what I do know: they call me Pyro and I have been in a coma for six years.

* * *

**A/N:** I came up with this story as I was in bed, restless. I know I sometimes write sort of cryptically so if you are confused by anything, just ask me to clarify.


	2. Time

It's been quiet . . .

I've been quiet.

For a guy who has been in a coma for six years, you'd think I would want to use my voice after being silent for so long. I will eventually, as I have a lot to say, but only when the time is right and it is not that time. Speaking of _time_ . . . hell, I don't know; I would have to guesstimate that it's been over forty-eight hours since I've awoken from my coma and I've been mostly out like a light. When I'm alert, I work on flexing my hands. I've lost count as to how many times I've made them into fists, but no matter what I try, they still feel stiff. When I get bored of that exercise I move on to tugging at the restraints. My upper strength has improved, but I still have to work on it.

The exercises keep my mind occupied. Otherwise, the same two words go round and round in my head: s _ix years_. Six years! I want to shout at the top of my lungs, but I don't. I want to punch something, but I can't. Defeated, I sighed and let my head fall into the pillow.

After a few minutes pass; I hear a buzz towards the front of the room right before Moira came through the door.

She planted herself at the foot of the bed and asked, "How are you doing today, Pyro?"

I shrugged.

"I'm going to start lowering the dosage of the medications. Are you currently in any pain?"

My eyes traveled from her face to my left hand. I flexed it once and looked at her again.

"I'll get to that, but does your head hurt at all?"

I replied with a shake of my head.

"Do you remember anything from Alcatraz?" I guess my facial expression answered her question because she didn't wait for my reply, and then she said, "Both of your hands were subjected to frostbite. I'm afraid the tautness is permanent and they'll throb in cold surroundings. I wish I had better news, but on the bright side . . . they didn't have to be amputated."

" _Lucky me,_ " I thought, rolling my eyes, and then I instantly realized that sarcasm felt right. It came naturally to me. Moira must've noticed the change in my mood as she silently observed me with those light blue eyes. It made me uncomfortable.

I lifted both of my arms as far as I could, using my eyes to do the asking.

"That decision is not up to me," she said, softly.

Frustrated, I made my arms go limp into the bed with a light, but audible thump.

Moira didn't offer an explanation and I didn't demand one. She picked up my medical chart, flipped between pages, and jotted notes. Her eyes were focused on the chart when she said, "I find it peculiar that you haven't spoken a word since waking up—" she paused and put the chart back in the bin hanging on the foot of the bed giving me her full attention. "What I'm trying to say is . . . you can talk when you're ready."

She gave me a warm smile and then walked over to the machines. I didn't pay attention to what she was doing as her visit brought more questions to the pile I already had. How the hell did I get frostbite especially in San—It Never Freezes—Francisco, and why would I go to Alcatraz?

Even though I assume Moira decreased the drugs that flowed through my veins, I still drifted off to sleep. I can't say if I dreamt while I was in a coma and I haven't dreamt in the past few days; so I can't say if what I saw was a dream or flashes of memories . . .

When I woke, my body was covered in sweat. My wrists hurt. I could only deduce from the pain that during my slumber I was pulling on the restraints which dug into my flesh. Those have got to go. I was tired of thinking about questions I didn't have answers to so I went back to obsessing over facts—a fact that I didn't get the chance to really mull over until now.

_Pyro._

_Fire._

_Pyro . . . short for pyromaniac?_

I sighed. I didn't see any burn scars and fire had nothing to do with frostbite. Then I thought, _Pyro could be a nickname_ . . .

My thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of the door. Moira walked in followed by a tall man wearing red sunglasses and behind him was a woman with white shoulder-length hair and beautiful light brown skin.

Silence filled the room. It would've been awkward if not for the machines humming and beeping occasionally. I think they were waiting for me to speak, but I held my tongue. The nameless man and woman exchanged whispers. I was hoping my demeanor was neutral as that's what I was going for. I wanted to get out of the restraints . . . not have more put on, and something told me they made the decisions regarding them.

I was not enjoying this staring contest, so I rolled my wrist indicating that they should get on with it. I chuckled lightly to myself. Yeah, I'm a very, very busy guy.

The man tensed and said, "What's so funny?"

The white-haired woman put a hand on his shoulder. This dude was all kinds of serious. In only a few minutes, he managed to rub me the wrong way.

"J—," she stopped herself short, "Pyro, we need to talk."

I nodded and then held up my index finger. I was ready. "Wh-who-are-y-you?" I managed to get out.

She shared a quick glance with Mr. Serious. When she turned back to me she said, "My name is Ororo Munro and this is Scott Summers."

_Eh, Mr. Serious suited him better._

"Do you know where you are?" Ororo asked.

"No clue."

"What's your name?"

"Py-ro?" Hell, even I wasn't exactly sure about that answer.

"That's the name you prefer, but what's your real name?"

"I was hoping you could tell me that. I believe you started to say it earlier, but stopped."

"Your name is John Allerdyce. You are currently in the medical bay of Xavier's Institute, which is located in Westchester New York."

Besides my name, the rest didn't mean much to me, but it was better than nothing. I didn't want to miss my chance to ask, so I blurted out, "Can you take the restraints off now?"

Ororo looked at Scott and he nodded. Moira went to one side of my bed to remove the cuff and Ororo went to the other. Moira applied ointment to the open wounds.

Ororo crossed her arms. "What do you remember about your life?"

I lifted my arms and intertwined my fingers behind my head. "Absolutely nothing."

As if she had all of the answers we all looked towards Moira. "Any doctor would tell you the same thing as I'm about to. We'll have to wait and see. I couldn't even give you a percentage as far as your chances of regaining your memories. It's just one of those things . . ."

I didn't say anything.

"Physically once you're better . . . and you're in familiar territory, perhaps you'll start regaining your memory. Do you have any other questions, John?"

My lips formed into a grin. "Call me Pyro.”


	3. They

[Two weeks later]

Physical therapy is . . . well . . . _physical_. I complained a lot. My body complained too as it ached every-freaking-where! Sweat-soaked hair clung to my forehead and my clothes stuck to my body. Over and over I would say 'I can't' and Moira would say the opposite. It was annoying as hell, but it worked.

Eventually, the torture was over for the day. Moira helped me back to the bed. Usually, that bed made me cringe, but right now it was exactly what I wanted.

"Take a thirty-minute rest, Pyro. When I come back, I'll assist you to the showers."

Before I laid back to relax, I quickly gulped down a full glass of water. I stared at the empty space where a television set should be. Oh, I asked for one and was promptly denied. They didn't give me a reason. The books they left for me just collected dust. When I wasn't sleeping or relearning how to be mobile, I was writing. It hasn't helped resurface memories from my past yet, but I like to think it keeps me from doing something stupid.

Before I knew it Moira was back. She lied. That was not thirty minutes, but _this_ time I didn't complain as I was more than eager to shower. I got to my feet on my own and then looped my arm around the back of her neck using her as a human crutch. I had time to observe the hall as I slowly shuffled my feet towards an elevator. I passed many closed doors—some required codes to allow access and others didn't. This place was bigger than I'd imagined. As soon as Moira pushed the 'up' button for the elevator, the doors opened. I don't know how far that hall went, but it went beyond the elevator. As the doors closed, I thought: ' _from one small room to a metal box . . . what an improvement._ ' I smiled. Sarcasm never fails me. It was like comfort food—without the calories.

The doors slid open and to my surprise, this floor was very different than where I'd come up from. It is modern and fancy, but _normal_. Since coming back to conciseness, I haven't had the luxury of fresh air, sun rays or the freedom that comes with being outdoors. The huge window at the far end was worth the extra steps. Technically I was still trapped, but not by walls. I removed my arm to give Moira and my limb a break. Resting my forehead on the cool glass, my eyes drifted from treetops to grass to people—kids to be exact. They stood in a circle (from my vantage I could only see half, but I knew it was a circle) kicking a soccer ball to each other. I saw movement in the corner of my eye and my gaze followed it shortly after. They were much older than the soccer kids—possibly my age or close to it. They were all engrossed in a conversation, and from the looks of it, they seemed . . .

"Come on Pyro the shower is calling you."

"Do I smell that bad?" My breath fogged the window. Regardless of my previous rhetorical statement, I still added, "I am fully aware that I reek." My forehead left an imprint. Without giving it a second thought, I left it for someone else to clean.

Moira and I passed sinks and then rows and rows of lockers. Eyeing an opening towards the back, which I pegged, held the showers; Moira stopped at the edge of the last bench that was the closest to the opening. Before she could ask, I said, "Thanks for the help, but I think I can do this on my own." With that statement, I planted my butt on the bench.

"I'll be right outside in the hall if you need me."

Once she exited, I pulled off my damp shirt and let it fall to the floor. When you weren't steady on your feet, removing pants wasn't as easy as it should be, but I managed . . . eventually by leaning on a locker. I slowly padded my way into the first bathing area, twisting both knobs the second I got the chance to do so. I stretched out both of my arms on the partition/privacy walls to keep me steady. I let my head fall back and then shut my eyes—just darkness and the sound of running water put me at ease. The water was a pinch too hot, but I didn't care. I didn't want to move an inch. This was the first time in a long time that I was able to relax every bone in my body; including and most importantly my mind.

_An hour later (Yes, one hour later)_ . . .

Besides the fact that I know little to nothing about who I am or my history, I think it's fair to declare that that shower was probably the longest I had ever taken. Hell, I'll ever take. I didn't care, I needed it—it was like someone pushed the reset button on my mood.

I wrapped the towel around my waist. Droplets of watermarked my path to the sink. I stared at the stranger looking back at me in the mirror—if Moira had asked me to pick myself out of a group of photos I wouldn't have been able to do it successfully until now. _'So that's what I look like.'_ I inspected my beard, and ultimately decided it had to go. Everything I needed to remove the facial hair was provided for me. I guess that's what Moira was doing previously while I was taking a breather. Since the beard was long, I couldn't just start with the razor. I'd have to trim it first; thus, the task took some time before I was finished. I rinsed off the lingering shaving cream and toweled my face dry. I looked younger. I smirked at myself, which in turn triggered a memory that lasted only a split second. I re-enacted the memory as I saw it exactly by glancing at my right hand, palm facing me. It looked ordinary, but the markings on my hand matched the outline of the contraption I saw around my wrist. My entire life is a giant jigsaw puzzle that has to be put back together. This piece is just a corner of the frame, but it belongs.

With my mind concentrating on other things a thought finally dawned on me: They vacated the floor and showers for me. Was it to protect my ego or for a different reason? I noticed earlier that the older males outside seemed peeved about something and this must be why. I sat on the bench and leaned forward to open the locker that was labeled 'Beaubier'. _Sweats_. I wasn't thrilled, but not surprised. I'm not exactly sure what I was expecting, but I guess anything is better than the rank apparel that remained on the floor where I'd left it. They could be torched for all I care. No amount of detergent will get that smell out—fire is probably the only alternative.

After I put on the dark gray sweats, I rummaged through the locker I was already invading. Underneath towels, clothing, and various hygiene products, I discovered a black bag. I noticed there was a single yellow X on the front after I pulled it out.

As soon as I gripped the zipper, I heard Moira's voice. "How are you doing, Pyro?"

I quickly gazed in that direction. The door was slightly ajar, but she was still on the other side of it as I saw her silhouette. "I'll be right out," I yelled back, stuffing the bag back where I'd found it. I don't know why I felt like I had to be sneaky; I was simply just trying to get answers to the questions that they can't answer. Memories, however, can't be forced to resurface, but to give them a boost I should be surrounded by familiar territory and faces, which, they could help me with. Recovery required certain steps: first, regain mobility/strength, and second, everything else.

' _Why am I being isolated?_ ' I wondered on the way out of the locker room.

I'll never forget the look Moira gave me when I emerged. I know I looked like a different person. Hell, I felt like a completely different person.

Neither of us said anything on the journey back to my _whole world_ —room X-2.

* * *

Once Doctor MacTaggert left me to myself, I rolled up my sleeves and began to write. I wrote in detail the memory that revealed itself earlier as well as theories and questions. One of the bigger questions being: what are they keeping from me? I circled that question multiple times. I'm not being paranoid—I _know_ they are because I can't shake that feeling.

Fully absorbed with my notes, I found myself absently sketching the yellow symbol I saw on the gym bag. I studied it long and hard hoping an answer would jump right out at me. Hastily, I closed the notebook and stuffed it under my pillow when I heard the door buzz. Shortly after, a tall muscular man with dog tags hanging around his neck walked in with a scowl.

He stared me down for a few heartbeats. "They say you don't remember anything." He said to me in a gruff voice. Does he always scowl or was that just his face?

"That would be true." I replied, pausing for a moment, "But there's something about you that makes me think you'll tell me what _they_ won't . . ."

He laughed. Okay . . . so I guess he is capable of other facial expressions."You can't manipulate me, kid."

_Kid_. That irked me, but I remained unperturbed. Crossing my arms over my chest, I asked, "What do you want?" I hoped he heard the annoyance in my voice.

"Can't bullshit a bullshitter."

Confused, I studied him. Why would I lie? What would I have to gain? He turned around and the door buzzed. When he reached the doorjamb, I said, "I didn't catch your name . . ."

Just before the door closed, he said over his shoulder, "Didn't give it."


	4. Spiral

Again . . . what's with all of the secrets in this place? My patience is teeter-tottering over the edge. My whole existence is a riddle; I don't need more! I had a fistful of bed sheets in each hand, which I didn't realize until I let go.

I got to my feet quicker than I intended, almost losing my balance. Being helpless and dependent on others was behind me now. I'll use the space I have—it's not much and the fluorescent lighting is the absolute worst, but it's all I've got, and I'm going to use every inch. I need to do this for my sanity or else I'll need a padded room and a straight jacket if I have to stay in here another week. I'll make promises I won't keep, and beg if I have to. I know I'm not a beggar—most likely a hustler—but I'll do it to get out of this space. I've been down here for six years; even though I wasn't conscious, my subconscious damn well knows and it's aching, clawing to get out—a constant feeling that I can't shake.

The regimen started out easy: walking. Eventually, my strides became wider until I was walking like I should for my age. Then I decided to do push-ups until my arms couldn't hold me up any longer. My muscles hurt, but that just meant they were getting a good workout.

As a _break,_ I walked again. Eventually, something caught my attention above the door in the upper left corner. At first, I thought it might be a spider because it was very tiny. To get a closer look, I lazily dragged over a chair. From that vantage, I was able to debunk the spider theory. While on the chair, I checked the other corners of the room. Eventually, my gaze returned to the small, perfect, round circle. They were watching me.

I wasn't exactly surprised . . . I just hadn't thought about it. I gave a short wave to whoever was watching, hopped off the chair and pushed it back in its place. Then I picked a spot and sat on the linoleum floor to work on my abdomen.

I remained on the linoleum surface long after I was finished with crunches. I didn't want to go back to the bed and the floor was actually more comfortable than the chair. The cool temperature of the flooring comforted me as well.

When I heard the door being unlocked, I stayed exactly where I lay.

Moira and Storm stood over me; both of their faces blocking my view of the ceiling.

"Good . . ." I greeted, pausing for a moment, "I don't know what time is."

"It's half-past five," Moira informed me.

"Pyro, have you recovered any memories these past few days?" asked Storm.

"A little, but too scattered to explain," I lied.

"I have confidence that you're ready to handle familiar surroundings and faces." At that statement, I immediately sprung to a sitting position. I probably should've gotten my ass off the floor, but I didn't and Storm continued, "I would suggest taking the latter slowly as there are a lot of faces that reside here. You'll be getting your own private dorm. We have some things that belong to you that will be waiting for you. Meals will be brought up directly to you." She took a breath, continuing, "Depending on how the transition goes, that arrangement might change. The rules I've come up with are for your safety as well as others. Think of this as a probation period. Just stay out of trouble, Pryo." Storm sighed, thoughtful. A smile formed in the corner of her mouth as she said, "You always claimed trouble found you." She paused as the memory passed. "These are the rules: don't leave the campus, however, feel free to get some fresh air. You must be in your dorm at nine p.m. and not a minute later. No internet/TV, and I repeat: Stay. Out. Of. Trouble."

' _Even in prison you're allowed to watch TV,_ ' I mused.

As soon as I rose to my feet, I looked her directly in the eye, and said, "Understood, Ms. Monroe." Ugh. That gave me a wave of nausea, but as the words passed through my lips there was also a feeling of familiarity. I knew being polite wasn't in my nature, but it was apt for the situation. I have to be on my best behavior, right? They weren't slapping on a tracking device on my ankle and in return, I could be respectful.

"We will wait in the hall for you to gather your things."

It wouldn't take me long—I didn't have much, to begin with—plus, if I stayed in here for another minute longer, it would've been fifty-nine seconds too long. I took the few plain, basic colored t-shirts I was given and then I grabbed the notebook from under the pillow. Despite my efforts to keep it a secret, they knew all along so I didn't bother to hide it on the way out.

* * *

They called it a _dorm room._ I considered it a suite that you would find in a fancy hotel. From the door frame, my eyes took in the capacious space. The first thing I noticed was the window. It was currently closed and hidden until Storm separated the curtains to let the sunlight in. Moira showed me a button by the bed that I could press if I needed her. After that, Storm told me that I should expect dinner at seven and excused herself with Moira exiting with her. At the foot of the bed, I released the things from my hands onto it next to a box and strode over to the window. I opened it past my head; leaning out, I looked down. The ground was a long way down. I was simply observing as there was no justification in leaving just yet—I had a roof over my head, a doctor that could aid me if needed, and an environment and people that could hopefully give my memory the jolt it needed to piece me back together.

Turning around, my eyes gazed upon the brown cardboard box that was neatly labeled: _Pyro's shit_. Standing there, I contemplated whether or not I should go through it now or later. I was really curious, even more so to see what I would recognize, but ultimately I decided to wait. What I really wanted was to spend time outside while the sun was still hanging in the sky.

I stepped out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Since my room was located at the end of the corridor, I could only go one way. I passed by many closed doors until I found the staircase and descended until I was at the bottom. Halfway down, I was beginning to think I'd never reach the final landing. Earlier we had used the elevator, as we passed floors Storm told me that it was only used for emergencies and that an exception was made this time. At the time, I didn't ask why; I just nodded in acknowledgment.

I'm glad the doors were right in front of me or else I'd probably get lost. I trotted to the doors, swung the right one open and stepped outside. I had to shade my eyes from the setting sun to be able to see in front of me. The main path went way beyond what I could see—again, just an observation. I headed off to the left. A short time later, I noticed a basketball court. There was only one person on the court shooting free throws, their back facing me. As I continued, I passed a large swimming pool, tennis courts, flower garden, vegetable garden, and an octagon gazebo.

A pair of girls did a double-take as I passed them by and then they whispered to each other shortly after. I kept walking, looking to find a spot where I wouldn't be bothered. Trouble would not find me today! I approached a wooded area. Before I took another step I looked to either side and behind. The coast was clear. I bent down and pushed my way through. Sticks and leaves snapped and cracked under my feet as I walked. Black crows paid me no mind as they were busy tearing through the flesh of a deceased medium-sized mammal. I kept a steady pace until a particular tree stopped me in my tracks. It was in my way, but besides that, it had marks on its bark. A scorched spiral went around the entire trunk of the tree. It was kind of like a decoration but permanent. As I outstretched my arm to touch, I felt a pair of eyes watching me. I spun around. A little girl about five or six years of age with blue eyes and wavy blonde hair stood a foot or two away from me. Before I could speak, she said, "You're bad." in a cute, but annoying kid voice.

"Would a _bad_ guy give you this?"

She stared me down and didn't take the flower I was holding. "Yes, to c-c-coerce me into doing something."

_Coerce._ That automatically made me laugh and she frowned at me. I tried to stifle my smile, but I just couldn't. "What? Are you going to tell me that bad guys don't laugh?"

She stuck her tongue out and twisted her face. "I don't like you," she said, running past me as fast as her short legs could take her. Shortly after, crows squawked at each other as they took flight above the treetops. I turned my attention back to the tree. I touched the unnatural scar and was hit with a memory: _small flames were scattered on the edges of the spiral when suddenly they all went out simultaneously. A short breath later, to the right of the tree, a single line of fire split into two before touching a different tree. After a few moments, the trails came to a complete halt and the flames grew at an anomalous rate._ _In a blink, the fire disappeared like a magic trick without a curtain blocking your view._ The fire didn't spread, but it should have in this type of environment. I dropped my hand and turned my head to the side. I didn't have to check. This was definitely the spot as the evidence stood tall in front of me. My brows knitted together in thought. ' _They call me Pyro . . . why?'_ I gazed at the trunk and whispered in astonishment, "Did I do this?"


	5. Left Behind

Was I trembling in excitement or fear? I tried my best to remember more, but instead, I was just giving myself a headache. My hands were stiffening so I decided to go back inside. I took one last look at the tree and turned around.

I backtracked the way I came . . . or . . . at least I think I did. The walk back was a complete blur and I was now in my private dorm sitting on the king-sized bed. I lay down; my intention was to only shut my eyes for a few minutes, but it ended up being a few hours. My eyes were open, but I couldn't see a thing because the room was completely dark. I hopped off the other side of the bed and felt my way into the bathroom. Flicking on the light, I made a beeline to the toilet and relieved myself, breathing a sigh of relief. I felt the chill from the white tiles beneath my feet. After I flushed, I explored the bathroom, which was the size of a kid's bedroom. Opaque glass surrounded the bathing area. My fingers closed around the handle and I pulled the shower door open. Immediately I noticed pockets in the walls—the thought of a steam bath made me grin. I was expecting jet pockets in the white porcelain tub but there weren't any.

I kept the light on in the bathroom so that I would be able to maneuver with ease. Once in the threshold, my stomach growled which reminded me that I hadn't eaten anything. A tray was left for me that contained a bottle of water, sandwich, potato chips, and a medium-sized home-made cookie with a bunch of chocolate chips peeking out of the dough.

The decision wasn't hard. I bit into the cookie first. Delicious wasn't apt to describe it. It was very good, but I hadn't eaten one in six years so my taste buds were beyond ecstatic. I moaned with each bite—if anyone was able to hear me, they would think I was getting pleasure in a completely different way. If that were the case, I'm confident that I would be able to control the noise (assuming I'd want to, of course).

I was able to control myself as I consumed the rest of my meal. Stomach full, my back hit the mattress. The thought of the cookie kept the smile on my face intact. I noticed the cardboard in the corner of my eye, but my mind had already drifted back to the tree. _'Something like that couldn't be accomplished just by pouring lighter fluid and striking the match. It was done with precision and control. If I was able to wield fire, wouldn't that be—?'_ I scoffed, cutting the consideration short. That theory was utterly ridiculous.

I needed facts, not theories! And the box that might hold some answers . . . let's face it . . . I've been putting it off.

' _Why?'_ I'm not entirely sure.

' _Am I scared?_ _What's there to be afraid of? The person I_ was _?'_

"No." That two-letter word had to be said out loud, including the word that came after, "Am."

' _I am still that person even if I have no recollection.'_ Finding out who I am has been my number one goal—truth be told, first and the only goal—since coming out of a coma. There had to be a better explanation. When it hit me, I was still laying there, staring at the ceiling. It was simple, really. I wasn't scared. Lazy. I was lazy. I smirked knowing that I didn't have to look in the box to figure that one out. Shoving laziness tendencies to the side, I sat up; however, that didn't stop me from groaning childishly in annoyance as I moved.

Standing in front of it, I placed both of my hands on either side of the lid. A moment later, I found myself looking inside. I picked up the notebook with the red cover and studied the various doodles on it, which included: my preferred name (there was no doubt this pad belonged to me), random shapes and lines, skulls, and flames. I decided to go through the contents later, so put it on the bed along with two other notebooks. Next, I pulled out a red hoodie. Instinctively I brought it to my nose and took a sniff. The hoodie smelled like burnt toast. I put it on and immediately placed my hands into the pockets. I felt paper in the left and something made out of plastic in the right: a twenty-dollar bill and a disposable lighter. The lighter was empty, thus useless, but I chose to hang on to it.

The thought of toast lingered. I glanced at the door. ' _Was it locked?'_ I shrugged. ' _Only one way to find out._ ' I walked to the door, turned the knob, and the door opened with ease. With that question put to bed, I closed it and returned back to the things I once left behind. The consumption of toast would have to wait. In the meantime, I could continue to take whiffs of my hooded jacket. I was about to dig into the box when I heard a knock at the door.

"Co-" I cleared my throat, and started again, "Come in."

I corrected my posture as soon as my eyes gazed upon her. I wished the action was more subtle than it was. I then proceeded to put my hands in my pockets—hopefully, that was done more smoothly—and held the useless lighter between my fingers. Within seconds I felt more comfortable. "Hi," I said, finally.

"I figured you'd be up. You were always a night person."

"Were we…?" I blurted.

She laughed. "No."

"I _honestly_ don't know why I said that," I admitted, my tone laced with grief. The left part of my face buried in my hand. If she was bothered by my stupid question, she didn't let it show.

"You look good . . . all cleaned up," she said, changing the subject.

It was then that I noticed the white in her hair; however, the majority was auburn. I met her emerald gaze and was struck with a memory.

* * *

_Five teenagers are hanging out in the recreation room. Pyro is lounging on the couch, taking up two seats. Rogue is in the last cushion watching Peter, Jubilee, and Bobby play ping-pong—two against one at Bobby's request. Pyro was so focused on what he was writing, the noise from the ball bouncing on the table and the trash talk Bobby was spewing went into one ear and out the other._

" _And just like that, it's a score of five to one," said Blue Eyes, grinning from ear to ear. "I warned you about my ping-pong skills."_

_Frustrated, the Asian girl with long black hair turned to her teammate, she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze as he was significantly taller than she, "Piotr, it's not about how hard you hit it, just get it to bounce on the other side of the table."_

" _I'm trying my best, but in my defense, my hand is bigger than the paddle."_

_Blue Eyes tossed the small white ball to himself a couple of times. "Enough chit-chat. Ready for more?"_

_His opponents got into their ready positions and Blue Eyes made his serve shortly after. The ball bounced back and forth ten times. When the ball bounced high enough Blue Eyes extended his arm and swung with great force purposely aiming at the back of Pyro's head. "Bullseye."_

_Pyro stopped writing, placed the pen in the notebook and then closed it. "You're just looking for attention," he said calmly, "though I can't fathom why you would poke a bear in hibernation that didn't even know of your presence . . . until now._ " _His words were directed at Blue Eyes, but his gaze was upon the girl with auburn hair and green eyes._

" _I guess the only obvious question that's left is . . . what is the bear going to do now?" asked Blue Eyes._

" _Nothing," he answered in less than a heartbeat. "If you wanted me to watch you hit a little hollow ball, all you had to do was ask."_

_Blue eyes crossed his arms, unsure of what to say, so he said the first thing that popped into his head, "Rogue, do you believe this?"_

"You should know better than to poke bears, Drake," she said, and then added, "It's a good thing he's not hungry."

* * *

Rogue . . .," I said, faintly.

"Mmm?"

I jerked at the sound. "Oh, I forgot you were here. I guess I got lost in the memory." I paused momentarily and continued to explain, "My memory is completely shot. I'm regaining it in pieces."

"Did you just remember something?"

I nodded. "Your name."

She gave me a soft smile. "My given name is Marie, but I prefer Rogue. Still do after all of these years." She closed the gap between us and peered into the box. "Do you mind?"

I motioned for her to go ahead, and took a seat on the bed.

"You used to listen to these albums constantly," she said, and then handed them to me.

I looked at each one, but none of the covers looked familiar. "Which one should I start listening to first?"

"The Red Hot Chili Peppers," she replied instantly.

I turned the case over and read the tracklist while Rogue rummaged through the box looking for the next thing to pull out. Music can play an important part in who you'll become—molding and shaping you depending on how the lyrics speak to you.

Rogue pulled out clothes and put them on top of each other creating a small mound on my bed. I didn't know what it was, but something she saw made her smile. "I can't believe you kept this."

I waited for her to elaborate.

In her hand, she held a piece of paper. From the back, I could see handwritten text. "You wrote this ridiculous story for an English assignment that made the whole class laugh," she told me and handed it to me.

Within the first few sentences, I found myself laughing uncontrollably. "Good stuff," I said. "Definitely worth saving."

"I fully agree, but you weren't the type to hold on to things . . . especially school-related."

"Rogue . . ." I started, my tone serious, smile erased. I paused to gather my thoughts before continuing. "What can you tell me that I don't already know? I can't get any solid information from anyone. We were friends, right? I know Moira and Ororo want me to figure things out on my own—I'm not quite sure the same can be said about the dude with dog tags—but . . ."

She looked at me as she considered the question. After a minute or two, she walked over to the desk. She took the chair and brought it closer to me, facing the low backrest towards me. She straddled the seat and hung her arms over the backrest.

Before Rogue could speak, I blurted, "What am I?"

"I'm not allowed to discuss that," she said, in an even tone. "Just know that you're not alone."

_'Okay . . . not what I was looking for, but it's something. I was expecting much less.'_

"Logan wears dog tags. He wouldn't tell you his name, huh?" I shook my head, and she smirked. "He asked me to hold on to them once. I gave them back to him when he returned. He was searching for answers too."

"He doesn't trust me," I said matter-of-factly.

"Trust is earned. You lost any you had when you went to Erik's side." She waited a moment, adding, "Does that name mean anything to you?"

"No," I replied. "What does that mean exactly?"

"Erik has a different way of handling things. He's extreme. Shows no mercy. And will use you as a human shield to save his own skin."

The disdain in her voice was as plain as day.

She scoffed. "Oh, and Erik will sacrifice his own for ' _the good of the cause_ '." She rolled her eyes. "That's what he told me once . . . a long time ago."

I asked the only question that came to mind. "You were on his side at one time?

"Not willingly," Rogue muttered. She wrapped her fingers around the top of the backrest, her elbows pointed to the floor as she held on like she was ready to do some pull-ups. "I was mad at you for leaving with him, but those ill feelings vanished years ago." She slightly tilted her head to the side and pushed some hair behind her left ear. "What's your next question?"

"Who did this to me?" I showed her my hands. "And why?"


	6. Scars Of War

_'Who did this to me?'_ It was a question I hadn't really had the time to ponder. Perhaps it surfaced from what she was telling me about Erik.

"A foe on the battlefield, but he was a friend first," she told me in a neutral tone, and added, "he was defending himself."

_'Battlefield?'_ That word stood out—a word that ordinary people don't have to use often, if ever. "From me?"

"Yes."

I looked at my hands. "Harsh."

"War typically is."

Another word that I wasn't expecting. My eyes remained set on my damaged hands. "Were you there?"

"No, I was not," she replied, "but I know everything."

_'If I could remember, would I be ashamed or proud?'_ I reflected. _'I don't feel much of anything, but I can't be blamed for that . . . everything is still a blur.'_

"Does that person live here?" I asked.

Rogue nodded.

"I want to see him," I told her, my tone firm with determination. She looked uneasy.

"I'll see if that can be arranged, but to be frank, he didn't want to a few days ago. He was adamant about it too." She studied me for a moment as she played with the diamond ring on her left hand, and said, "Can I ask why?"

The wedding ring was far from tiny. Why hadn't I noticed it until now? I could've sworn it wasn't there a minute ago. I have to work on observation skills, it seems.

My reply should've been ' _to apologize_ ', but instead I said _,_ "I think it's important." I stood up, walked to the nightstand and grabbed the bottled water. Once I opened the cap, I took a swig. "What can you tell me about my parents? Are they among the living?"

"From what I know, nothing has changed since your coma. Your father has been dead for a while now, but that's old news . . . to the post-coma. Your mother is alive. They kicked you out of the house when you were a teenager."

I nodded once. "Any siblings?"

In response, she shook her head and then the corners of her mouth quirked upward. "You probably have no clue."

I cocked my head to the side and furrowed my brows.

"You're Australian."

"I don't have an accent."

"You said you wanted to rid yourself of the past, so you dropped it over time," she explained. "It's been years since I heard " _g'day_ " or " _mate_ " from you."

I laughed at her failed attempt at Australian dialect and she followed suit.

As the laughter faded, Rogue glanced at her watch. "Anything else you want to ask before I clock in some shut-eye?"

I didn't want my head to explode, so I chose a simple question. "What other names are Logan and Erik known by?"

* * *

_'Storm, Cyclops, Wolverine, Magneto . . ._ '

While sprawled in bed, I repeated those names over and over seeking to trigger more memories. I switched between silently and out loud. ' _One more time,_ ' I decided. Changing the sequence, I started with Erik's first. Halfway through Logan's, one surfaced.

_A few chess pieces made out of ivory stood in their respective squares. The older man's face was inscrutable as he waited for his turn._

_Pyro took his time planning his next move. He was currently winning, but the wrong move could swiftly end the game, and once again he'd fall to his opponent as he had many times before._

_'Smirk all you want, Pyro. Playing with ivory rather than metal isn't the reason you are winning this time. I don't cheat at chess,' Erik insisted. 'You're intent on beating me, so you're playing the game as it should be played,' he paused, "with precision and patience.'_

_After a few heartbeats, he replied, 'I figured using a different chess set for a change would be appealing. The pieces are refined and polished. You can't deny that this sophisticated set meets every single standard of yours.' Pyro clutched his Queen and moved it. 'I stole it just for you, Boss.' His gaze remained on the board game as he grinned, purposely uttering the title Magneto despised and for the single word he'd been itching to announce since learning the game. "Checkmate."_

"Useless," I muttered, and then quickly realized it wasn't entirely pointless. I slapped the bed in revelation. "' _Boss'_ is Erik! At least I can put a face to the name."

At some point in the wee hours of the morning, I fell into a deep dreamless slumber.

* * *

I awoke to sunlight hitting me in the face. It pierced through the small space where the curtains meet forcing me to squint as I wiped some drool from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. Rolling to a sitting position, I turned my back on the trespassing sunshine. Wiping away the sleep from my eyes, I noticed it was close to noon. After I stretched, I got to my feet and started for the bathroom when something by the door caught my attention . . . a yellow post-it note. I bent down, picked it up and read:

_As soon as you read this..._

_Come find me._

_(Try the library first)_

_R_

She wrote the initial with a long obnoxious tail—the blue pen mark faded just before the edge—which made me smirk. I crumpled the note in my fist to throw it away, but I changed my mind just before the small paper ball left my fingertips. I used the table to try to smooth it out as best I could. Apparently, this would be "out-of-character" but I didn't care. Perhaps I'm a changed man.

It took me about fifteen to twenty minutes to look presentable. I had on a dark green t-shirt, jeans with a clearly visible tear on the right knee, and black and white Vans sneakers. The biggest decision: should I wear the hoodie? That article of clothing was like a cozy embrace of comfort. After a few minutes of indecision, I finally concluded that the extra layer was mandatory. I quickly pulled it on while I exited the room to find the library.

Every person I had to ask was helpful even though the disdain was clearly visible. I didn't hold it against them as they probably had every right. I'm a lone shark surrounded by a pod of dolphins.

As I rounded the corner I held my breath. If she wasn't there I'd have to ask for more help. It was getting harder and harder to pretend, but to my relief, she was in the library reading a paperback book. I'd estimate she was mid-way through it. She was so lost in the story that she didn't notice I was in the threshold. My intent was to not startle her so I cleared my throat to make my presence known. Rogue glanced at me with a soft smile and said, "Have a seat. I'll be right with you after I finish this chapter. I'm almost done."

If I sat, I feared all I would do is stare at her, so instead, I remained standing to browse the titles of the books on the shelves. I reached out and ran the tips of my fingers over the indented lettering for _The Once and Future King._ This book stood out among the rest, but I couldn't quite pinpoint why.

"Pyro!"

My head quickly turned in Rogue's direction.

"I apologize for raising my voice," she said, her voice back to its standard pitch, "but you weren't responding to 'John'."

I waved her off. "Apology not needed," I assured, and took a seat. Her arms were blocking the title of the book that was on her lap. "What are you reading?"

Rogue's face beamed with delight. " _To Sir, With Love_. It's one of my favorites." She took a moment. I could tell from her eyes the subject was about to change. "I wasn't sure what time you'd be up so I thought it was best just to leave you a note. I have an update on something we discussed hours ago." Rogue paused briefly as she laced her fingers on top of the book. "He's agreed to meet with you."

* * *

My pace was slow. I was busy in my head trying to formulate what to say when I came face to face with the ex-friend that I hardly remember. He screwed up my hands and took six years of my life that I'll never get back. Anger was building up inside of me. Before I could rupture, I recalled what Rogue had told me—the blame can't all be placed on him. I stopped just before the opening. ' _Screw it. I'm going to have to wing it.'_

He was waiting for me at the far side of the room. His back was facing the window and his arms were folded across his chest. I stopped in the middle. We were about ten feet apart. At that moment I sensed something vaguely familiar. However, I was unable to dwell because shortly after I settled into my position I was greeted with, "I want to punch you, but I won't because your noggin can't handle it." His tone was sharp around the edges matched with a sapphire gaze as hard as stone.

Naturally, my defenses kicked in. "And whose fault is that?" I grunted.

"Don't," he spat, and in a split second, he was standing in front of me. I didn't flinch. He was a good head taller than me. One hand was clenched to his side and the other was an inch from my face—specifically, his index finger. "You've always been a smart-ass, but just . . . don't. It took me years to stop blaming myself." I heard what he said loud and clear; however, his eyes told a different story. After the statement, he withdrew his hand and took a step back—acceptable personal space requirements intact.

A ping of guilt tugged at me. Whereas I was unaware of everything while in a coma, he was living and dealing with it every second, every minute, and every hour of every day. It was difficult holding my tongue regarding his breath (besides the chill), but just like the rude gesture, I let it slide. I couldn't allow myself to be a jerk to him.

"Iceman," I whispered as it passed through my lips. It ascended from my subconscious without a vision. My hands tensed. The look on his face confirmed it belonged to him. My mind became wrapped in a twister of thoughts. Absently I took out the lighter and the next thing I knew I was no longer on my feet. Instead, my face was pinned to the floor. "What. The. Fuck!" I enunciated through clenched teeth, struggling with discomfort at the weight on my back. I felt him move as he reached for something. I couldn't see what it was; he had a good grip on my head.

"Oh, it's empty."

"Can you get off of me now?" Once he let go of my head, I saw curious faces peering from the doorway. As I was getting to my feet, I said, "I don't have my full strength back. Even that scrawny kid could keep me down." It had to be articulated. It was true. Plus, I probably had a reputation to uphold. Insulted, the kid's brows knitted together as he placed closed fists on his hips.

Iceman walked past me and closed the door.

I waited for him to turn around. "'Pyro' isn't _just_ a nickname, is it?"

"No," he replied, "it's who you are."

I walked over to the window. "This theory has surfaced more than once and I laughed it off each time . . . I _can_ control fire." I didn't form it into a question because it was clear as day. I spun around, facing him once again. "Is that why I'm not allowed a TV?"

"One of them."

Palm faced up, I moved my hand trying to start a flame. Unsuccessful, I tried rubbing my hands together. Still nothing. When I looked at Bobby I saw a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"You can't create it, only manipulate," he revealed, after making me look like an idiot for a good five minutes or so. "Where did you get this?" He held the lighter by its length using his forefinger and thumb.

"In my hoodie while I was going through my things. Why?"

Iceman shrugged. "We were roommates. I put the box together. I should've checked more thoroughly."

I smirked, "You could've been twenty dollars richer too." I waited a moment or two before changing the subject. "Don't you think it might be beneficial to be able to manipulate fire to kick-start my memory?"

"I do, but that's not up to me. Right off the bat, a problem that I foresee is control."

"Shouldn't it be like riding a bike? You know . . . once you learn, you never forget." I reasoned.

"Perhaps, but when it comes to hurting others or yourself there's more to consider. It's not an easy decision." He paused. "Do you think you can handle it? By opening this door it could set off past experiences that you rather keep buried."

"I don't really have a choice." I grabbed at my chest and held a fistful of my shirt. "There's this constant void that's growing inside of me and I'm concerned what will happen if it should cave in." If I looked apprehensive, it was apt because I was as serious as a heart attack.


	7. Fallout

After I spilled that personal information, I felt vulnerable, but I was getting desperate. Iceman's expression was solid. If he played poker . . . he'd be difficult to read.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I felt embarrassed to ask, but I wasn't going to call him _that_ —though, it's probably a normal thing around here. "What's your real name? I _know_ I should know it but you got me exceptionally well." I lightly tapped on my head— _not_ that he needed a reminder but I was giving him a compliment!

He didn't hesitate and didn't seem to mind the gesture. "Bobby Drake," he said as he outstretched his arm. I took it, ignoring the tension in my hand. His hand wasn't cold like I thought it would be. "I had to stop you from hurting the people I care about."

I nodded in acknowledgment. He puts others before himself. Since that's not a bad thing . . . why do I have the urge to vomit? Perhaps we really are opposites. I snorted at myself. I wasn't a changed man . . . I was still confused.

Bobby was looking at me strangely. Then it hit me as to why. "Don't mind me," I apologized. "I'm still figuring things out."

"Did you come to a new conclusion?"

"I'm an asshole."

He didn't deny it. "I'll speak to the others about what we discussed. You'll be notified on how we want to proceed."

"Before I go—" I trailed off to choose my words. "Something has been bothering me literally and figuratively." I paused to meet his eyes. "Bobby, what exactly did you do to my hands?" He was about to speak, but I cut him off before he could utter a word. "I can pretty much guess, but I just need to know."

He folded his arms over his chest. "We were playing elemental tug-of-war for a while. Eventually, I got close enough to disable the source of which you extracted your power. They were strapped to your hands and I had no choice, but to freeze them. And then it was lights out for you."

Tilting my head, I said, "You headbutted me, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Were you trying to kill me?" I asked.

"No," Bobby said with certainty and added, "But can you say the same?"

I winced internally. Cheap shot just like the headbutt. No longer able to meet his gaze, I turned to leave. "You know I can't remember," I told him quietly over my shoulder. I felt his eyes trying to burn through the back of my head. Even I knew that sounded lame, nevertheless, it was true. However, deep, deep down . . . I knew the truth.

"Oh, by the way, you've always been one . . ." He said to my back as I reached the door. I opened it and began to exit. All of the spectators from earlier had dispersed. "An asshole." I heard him say as I entered the hall and veered left.

I stuffed my hands into my hoodie's pockets and kept my head down. I had more to think about. The walk turned into a jog until I reached the stairs. I hauled ass to climb them, however, I was out of breath about halfway up. I shuffled over to hold onto the rail for support and used my other arm to cradle my stomach. My lungs burned for oxygen causing me to cough. I couldn't proceed until I caught my breath. In between everything else I have going on, I'd have to find time to get back into shape. If I ever need to run . . . I wouldn't get very far in this condition. As soon as I felt better, I continued to ascend.

Various scattered items decorated the once immaculate floor of my room—the fallout of not finding what you're looking for. I didn't have that many possessions. Why couldn't I find my notebook? Did I hide it and simply forget? I can't be senile too! I sighed as I flopped myself—back first—onto the bed, temporarily defeated. As soon as my back hit the mattress, I was granted with a piece of the past.

_I writhed in pain in the snow. The agony in my head seemed to go on_ forever, _but it was probably only a few minutes and then it stopped. I scrambled to my feet looking around for the source but saw nothing suspicious. Letting my guard down, I brushed off snow from my coat as best as I could and continued the determined unclear journey through the snowy wooded area. After wondering for a time, I was getting concerned I wouldn't be able to find my way back if that was my only option. Eventually, I heard a helicopter in my vicinity and followed the sound to a cliff. Standing about three feet from the edge, I watched the helicopter as it climbed in altitude._

Conquered no longer, I sat up, pushed to my feet, and went to the nightstand. Sliding open the drawer, I smiled when I saw what I'd been searching for. Initially, I just wanted the most recent notebook but grabbed all of them instead.

With the notebooks at my side, I strode on the pristine lawn—no weeds, nor dirt patches. Each blade of grass was a healthy shade of bright green. The light breeze—one of the simple perks we take for granted—was welcoming as I walked. I decided to park my butt on the bleachers, at the very top. No one was playing basketball so I had the whole area to myself, which was what I wanted. The breeze was stronger now that I was higher off the ground, but I remained seated. To control the paper from flapping, I tucked the cover underneath along with the pages I'd already filled. On a blank sheet, I added the newly found information along with the details of precedent memories. When I was done recording, I closed the notebook and dove into my youth. Right from the start—thanks to my teen angst—apparently it was in "my best interest" to keep a journal as resentfully stated on the first page. It was forced upon me, but yet, I stuck to it then and now. The sole reason: Anger. Instead of taking out my rage on others or myself I could write it down or draw. I flipped the page. A lot of the hatred was aimed at my parents. Every time I wrote 'Mom' or 'Dad' they were emphasized by drawing over the 3-letter words multiple times making them darker than the rest. I skimmed ahead. Pretty quickly I realized by calling them that I was giving them respect and they lost any they had with me; once they threw me onto the street like a piece of trash . . . I was no longer their son. In return, I referred to them by their first names. Titles are earned. If I could take anything away from them it would be 'Mother' and 'Father'.

' _They are dead to me._ ' That was the last sentence I read before closing the notebook. Needing a break, I took a deep breath and exhaled audibly. It was a lot of information to absorb. My adolescent words were as sharp as blades, but they were apt—lies aren't told in journals, only brutal honest truths. Even though I eventually _cleaned my hands_ of my parents, the anger never subsided. After being dormant for years, it was trying to erupt. I silently fought it off by clearing my mind and taking long deep breaths. I couldn't afford to lose my freedom. Not now. Not while just I'm starting to burn through the fog.

Absently, I started drawing. Jagged connected messy lines eventually met to form a huge speaking bubble. The inside was blank. I stared at it. What did I want to say, but couldn't—no, wouldn't—out loud?

Nearby chatter interrupted my thoughts. I turned my head to see a few students talking among themselves. They pushed each other in a teasing way as boys often do. There were three boys and one girl. When the tallest boy took a glance at me, he immediately nudged his buddy and pointed at me with his chin.

Indifferent, my attention went back to the empty bubble. However, that didn't last long as I heard the girl say, "Don't. Let's just go." I could see them in my peripheral. My gaze shifted slightly from my drawing to them at the bottom of the bleachers. I waited. After a few moments of silent staring, I closed the notebook and placed it on top of the others beside me. I wasn't going to start anything. If they had something to say . . . they could start whatever this interaction was going to be. I wanted to tell them to piss off, but held my tongue and waited.

"The rumors were true." The tall one said to his pals as he eyed me. "He should be dead or in jail. If it were up to me, he'd be dead."

I scoffed. A big statement for a little man. No. _Insect_. A wicked grin spread across my lips. I must've looked menacing because the girl promptly left her friends behind.

"Did I make a joke?" he asked his friends, ignoring my nodding. "You shouldn't be here. You don't deserve a second chance!" he spat. Both of his hands were in fists, a pale yellow glow emanating from them.

"You're probably right," I admitted. Before I stood up, his friends were trying to persuade him to leave me alone. It wasn't working, so I gave them a reason. I pulled out the lighter from my pocket and placed my thumb on the wheel. He was going to do something—besides the power coming from his hands, I could see the determination in his eyes—but since his friends were abandoning him, it didn't take long for him to follow. He should've listened to his buddies in the first place as I was just sitting here minding my own business. I don't know what would've happened if he tried to pick a fight just a few minutes prior before I could neutralize the anger that was about to boil over—I'm grateful we'll never know.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," I yelled, and their hasty pace turned into a run. "You don't fuck with Pyro, kiddies." I doubt they heard that part, but it felt good to say out loud. Once they were out of my sight, I sat down, cool as a cucumber. As soon as I went back to the unfinished drawing, I filled in the bubble with jet-black upper case letters. Each word was stacked on top of the other: UNSTABLE. DAMAGED. ASSHOLE. In a nutshell, those three words summed me up. The blame breakdown: parents, power, all me—I can't control how I'm wired and I won't apologize for it.

"PYRO!"

What now? I turned to see Scott marching with Ororo, Logan, and a brunette female that I haven't met, trailing behind. Hastily, I covered up the illustration with the other notebooks.

Eyes hidden behind ruby sunglasses, his facial expression was tight. I could already tell I was the guilty party. "You're unbelievable. Picking on minors has to be a new low, even for you." If we were inches apart, his finger would've been in my chest. Glaring at Scott at the top of my metal throne, he stood where the teens had been. The other three were positioned at the side.

Any other person's jaw would've dropped at the direct accusation. Mine didn't because there are two sides to a story—an outsider would say there are three sides to a story: theirs, mine, and the truth, but the truth is mine in this story. Sure, it was four sides to one, but at the moment I was still a cucumber. "I don't know what that tall punk told you," I said calmly, "but he was the instigator. Didn't his friends tell you that? They approached me."

"All of the boys said you were going to 'light them up’."

Liars! Having never said that cheesy line, I made a face to show my distaste. "I don't know their names so I'm just going to call the only one that matters 'Jake'. I had no idea what Jake could do, still don't. There was a glow coming from his hands, but I figured my ability"—I spread my arms to display supremacy—"and reputation would be more intimidating." I lowered my arms and reached into my pocket. "It was a bluff." A bluff, since I'm still powerless. I tossed Scott the lighter and waited a moment for him to inspect it. "That was the only way to defuse the situation without anyone getting hurt . . . besides Jake's ego." Before anyone could interject, I held up my finger to add, "Though, if anyone was going to get hurt, it would've been me. Jake wanted me dead." Why did that make me laugh? Because I couldn't believe those words passed my lips. To me, it sounded like a something from a trashy novel. But for them to take me seriously, I had to look the part. With the smile absent, I continued, "I'm not being dramatic, he said it." I held up the three fingers that represented 'scout's honor'. Logan smirked at that. I definitely wasn't the Boy Scout type. After a drawn-out sigh and shrug, I said, "I assume his friends neglected to mention that as well."

All four of them were quiet as my words sunk in. The decision fell on Scott's shoulders.

"Think about it," I said slowly, my gaze and words aimed at shades. "I'm sure it's difficult trusting _me_ out of all people, but my version of the story adds up. Doesn't it?" A rhetorical question filled with absolute confidence.

"For what it's worth, I don't smell bullshit," offered Logan.

Once more, I firmly added to my defense, "I have _nothing_ to gain by picking on insignificant teenagers." Sure, it was entertaining playing chicken with Jake, but I damn well wasn't going to admit that to the judge and jury. "Can I have the lighter back now? And can I go back to being by myself?"

Why did Scott need an entourage if he wasn't going to discuss my fate with them?

"Give it back to him. No one was injured." Ororo told Scott since he appeared to be on the fence.

After that, he made up his mind and lobbed the item back to me. His attention veered to the brunette. "Kitty, please find Jordan. When you do, bring him to my office."

So the punk's name is Jordan. I wasn't too far off. Kitty nodded in acknowledgment and jogged straight thr—Oh, that's useful. If I blinked, I would've missed it—through the wall of the mansion. So that's why she was given that task. It shouldn't take her too long to locate him, which was satisfying. Soon he'd be . . . I don't know . . . cleaning all of the toilets with a toothbrush. Wait. Is that even a punishment these days? There has to be something worse. Thankfully it's not up to me to dish out.

Without another word, Scott strode away with Ororo by his side. Logan lingered. I sighed as I got to my feet, giving him a side glance. He put a cigar in his mouth, holding it between his teeth. Lighter ready, he cupped his free hand over the cigar. His gaze shifted to me so quickly, I couldn't react so I had no choice but to hold mine. In retrospect, why not? It's like getting to witness a magic trick . . . you're going to look. Why hide your curiosity? I'm sure he expected no less from me. "You aren't going to do anything stupid, are you?" The cigar bobbed as he spoke. "If you do, you'll beg for Jordan to kill you instead of me. His way would be fast. That's not my style."

"How about lighting up somewhere that I'm not," I suggested rationally as I made my way down to the first bleacher.

He shrugged. "I have my reasons."

I didn't answer right away . . . wasn't going to make it _that_ easy. "I'll behave," I promised after a few heartbeats. Making Logan wait too long didn't seem like a smart idea.

Immediately as the flame appeared, I felt something I hadn't experienced before. The pull was intoxicating. My eyelids shut as if I had no control. I held onto the metal seat to keep me grounded. This new warmth inside of me was like a drug—numbing, but fully aware. In what seemed like only seconds, the high vanished and I was left with a tease. My brows knitted together as I shot a hard glare at my tormentor. "What I'm feeling right now might be worse than death," I complained.

Logan replied ruefully, "I didn't think you'd forget about your _one true love_." He pocketed the lighter and put the unlit cigar between his teeth.

"Are you trying to make me blush?" I countered, resisting the urge to give him the finger. Then suddenly an unrelated question popped into my head and I asked it without hesitation, "Do you have a CD player?"


	8. Unrestricted

"Excuse me?"

"Do you have a CD player," I repeated, adding, "that I can borrow?"

Logan grunted, "Uh-huh".

I went back to the top of the bleachers to see what I could observe from that vantage point. I squinted at what looked like stables. This place was huge so I highly doubt I'm mistaken. A commercial jet flew overhead that drowned out any noise that could be heard. I watched it until it disappeared from my view into clouds. A flash of memory struck: _A chopper with a man and a blue woman with scarlet_ _hair inside._ It was part of the past I've seen before, but more clear, though, utterly short.

"Shake a leg, Pyro."

I hurried down, caught up to him, and trailed behind, letting Logan lead the way.

He removed the pristine cigar from his mouth and held it in his hand. "I know what it feels like to have a fuzzy memory," he told me.

"Oh, yeah?" My interest was sincere. "Is it crystal clear now?"

"No, but I got some answers," he responded. "The day you left, actually." No judgment, just fact.

"Do you regret knowing?" I asked.

He suddenly stopped, causing me to veer to the side to avoid coming into contact with his long muscular frame. The notebooks fell from my grip onto the grass, but I left them to give him my undivided attention.

"I regret nothing. It was a personal mission as I'm sure yours is."

I nodded. "Are they going to let me play with my power?"

He gave me a side grin and said, "If you use the word " _play_ " they won't."

"Poor word choice," I agreed and squatted to pick up the notebooks.

"Writing again?" he asked.

In response, I gave him a funny look because I got the sense he was talking about something else.

"You wrote intriguing short story romances. Normally I wouldn't admit I read stuff like that, but yours," he paused, "were different."

I'm glad I made him elaborate. "If they are in here"—I jerked the notebooks—"I haven't come across them yet." I cocked my head to the side. "Different how?"

He smirked, turned his back on me and started walking. "You'll see."

After that, we were both quiet. I was able to walk and skim at the same time, but I didn't come across anything remotely _romantic_. We only had to climb one set of stairs to get to his room.

Prior to handing the CD player over to me, he took out the disk that was previously left in it. I unplugged the headphones. "I have earbuds." He retrieved them from me, and that's when I thanked him and left.

As I passed the entrance to the library, I stopped short, took two steps back, and entered. The novel that piqued my interest was still in the same spot on the shelf. Using my index finger to slide it out, I briefly studied the cover before I tucked it into my arm that contained my notebooks. The next stop would be my room for some independent therapy. On the way I had a decision to make: do I start with music or reading? I chose the latter. The music might lull me to sleep and I rather have that occur later.

Using my foot to push the door closed, I placed the CD player and notebooks onto my bed, then I put the book on the desk, flipped the switch on the lamp and took a seat. Nearly two hours later my gaze finally veered from the page to the clock. I yawned and rubbed my eyes. I marked the page using a king playing card—no other card would be fit for the job—and flipped the hardcover shut.

A quick glance at the clock informed me that my dinner would arrive in forty-five minutes. While listening to my compact discs, I'd wait. I pushed the earbuds into the CD player, plugged them into my ears, pressed play, and closed my eyes, letting the music take over. Some of the lyrics—especially the chorus—I knew better than the back of my own hand. I hummed along until light from the hallway interrupted. Dinner time! I got to my feet as quickly as I could to retrieve the tray from Moira. She told me to enjoy and went on her way.

I slid the tray onto the desk, pushing the novel to make room. Steam eagerly escaped as I lifted the dome-shaped lid. Hot meals were always welcome. It smelled delicious. Chicken with various veggies and spaghetti in a brown sauce. After a few bites, I opened the book to where I'd left off. If I had access to a television, I'd be doing that instead while consuming dinner. Forty-five minutes later, I finished everything that was edible on the tray. When I was done with the current chapter, I marked the spot and closed the novel. I stared at the wall as I decided what was next. My legs needed to stretch and some social interaction might be what I needed. I know what you're thinking and I agree, but when you're forced to be silent for years things change. I know now how I felt back then, but solitude isn't for most no matter how much you think you want it . . . deserve it.

When I exited my room, I had no set destination. I let my subconscious take control and guide me until I heard laughter and chatter. That's when I used one of my five senses to guide me the rest of the way. I slipped into the room unnoticed, taking the first available seat. All I wanted was to blend in.

However, that didn't last too long.

I heard someone whisper my favored name and then jerk their head towards me. I silently cursed. Then they said, "I overheard Jordan say Magneto's bitch antagonized him for no reason." I swore some more. That dumb kid was going to ruin everything. If I had to hear another lie I was going to lose it. I pushed to my feet and strolled only about four doors down, blindly making a right at the threshold. I froze as soon as I entered. The little girl who had refused my flower immediately pointed her finger at me and said, "Bad man."

That made two more sets of eyes lock onto me. Rogue shot Bobby a disapproving glance. He replied with a shrug. Rogue turned the little girl towards her and crouched down to meet her eyes, "Lexi, John is our friend."

"Bu—"

"No excuses." Her tone was firm but not harsh.

Lexi looked at me and told me she was sorry without being instructed. When Rogue stood up, the little girl wrapped her arms around Rogue's leg. Bobby took a couple of short steps, placing himself behind Rogue and put his left arm around her. The black wedding band easily stood out.

She looked at me with those bright green eyes and said, "John, this is Lexi . . . our daughter."

I smiled—though, I wasn't certain how I really felt—to show their daughter I was friendly. "How old are you?"

She held up five fingers and also said the number.

"Cute kid," I told her parents, adding, "I thought her eyes reminded me of someone." I chose to not disclose how I first met Lexi even though I was positive it would get Bobby into trouble. "Is she named after anyone?"

"Logan," Rogue replied and Bobby rolled his eyes. At five, the kid already has an attitude and now I know whom she got it from.

Lexi's eyes lit up at his name. She tugged on Rogue's hand, urging her to move. "Logan!" the five-year-old screeched.

Sidestepping as the girls headed in my direction, as they passed me, I asked with a smirk, "Is he in a boy band that I don't know about?"

"See you later, Pyro," said Rogue, smiling. "Lexi, say goodbye to John."

"Bye, John," she parroted, apathetic. I guess I wasn't very interesting.

Immediately when four became two, the room got colder. I reclaimed my original spot. Bobby's arms were crossed over his chest, the black ring still visible.

What was his problem now? This dude had more mood swings than a woman going through menopause. If anyone was going to bitch it was going to be me. "Great parenting, Bobby," I barked. "Telling childr—" I stopped short to correct myself, "— _your own_ daughter that I'm the boogieman!"

He didn't react; only continued to gaze at me. Was he picking his words carefully? As seconds passed, the argument I thought was coming . . . just didn't. When my posture relaxed that's when he said, "Meet me at the elevator in a half-hour."

Dumbfounded, I stood alone. He didn't blow up at me. Rather, I was the one that had to diffuse. He gave me a time and simple instruction but didn't offer anything more. That chill between us remained. I was starting to doubt our friendship would ever return to what we had before my world became pitch black—regardless of the side we were on at the time. His disdain was deeper than that.

Not knowing what else to do with the remaining time I had, I headed for the elevator. I wondered how I would've felt pre-coma about Rogue and Bobby tying the knot. It was pointless because it was something I couldn't answer, but it kept my mind busy as I waited.

As I saw Bobby walking towards me, I thought, ' _This is going to be the most awkward elevator ride ever._ ' Our gazes met briefly. He placed all five fingers on the pad and the metal doors opened with an announcement of " _access granted_ ". We walked in, turned around, and stood side by side as the doors closed in front of us. Bobby pressed a button that was labeled "DR". A small hidden compartment underneath that button revealed another security clearance requiring another finger. He pressed his thumb onto it and the metal box descended into motion.

No words were exchanged.

When the doors opened, we walked straight ahead. The next set of metal doors had to be unlocked with a code, which Bobby punched in quickly. The doors slid open revealing a plain large metal room. I looked to my left at Bobby and then I followed his gaze to my upper right.

A panoramic viewing room.

Scott flipped a switch and then he walked closer to the glass. The speaker filled with his voice. "Pyro, you wanted the opportunity to use your ability in the hopes that it will trigger your suppressed memories." He spread his arms. "This is the Danger Room." He motioned to someone else behind him and the plainness of the space turned into a junkyard, then a jungle, then a desert, and back to metal. "Holograms. The environment is fake, but the threats are real. The Danger Room is a training tool. Its purpose is to teach control as well as strengthen. There are many levels and endless backdrops. Are you ready?"

Bobby nudged me. In his palm was a Zippo. He exited when I took it from him. I removed my red coat and hung it on the wall.

"Any questions?" asked Scott when I stepped back into the room soon to be filled with danger.

I flicked the cap open and turned the wheel with my thumb. Staring at the flame a foot away from my face, a genuine smile spread my lips. I shook my head and said with confidence, "Ready."

The viewing area was no longer visible when the hologram was chosen. The grass beneath my feet seemed real. The flowers were huge. They looked like they could swallow me whole. Vegetation was in my way no matter which direction I chose to go. I could have set it all ablaze but that would've defeated the purpose. This wasn't about taking shortcuts. I pushed giant leaves and vines aside. I heard sounds in the background that I couldn't identify. When I emerged from the plants, I was greeted with an arrow that missed my foot by an inch. Not knowing where it originated from, I didn't stay in that spot long.

Doubt was starting to cross my mind. Perhaps I shouldn't have been so arrogant. Maybe I should've requested target practice first.

A weapon mounted on a tree directed itself at me. It fired, sending a laser at my torso. Had I not been quicker, I would've been struck. More lasers followed, but I was faster. There was no hesitation when I finally got the chance to use my gift. I willed the fire to my palm and sent it towards the gun. My aim was a little off, but it did the job anyway. "Whoa," I ordered the flames to consume the entire weapon to confirm it was fully disabled. Satisfied, I wiped my sweaty forehead on my shirtsleeve. Before moving, I eyed my surroundings. I headed in the direction with a clear path and the best visibility. The sky wasn't covered by treetops. I looked over my shoulder and then jerked my head to the right when I heard what sounded like a bird.

My gut told me to run, so that's what I did. I ran for about a mile before I could say with certainty that my gut was right. I stopped and turned around. A prehistoric bird headed straight for me. Out of breath and slow to process, I didn't hit the ground until the very last minute. The beast's shadow passed over me. If asked later, I'd lie and say that strategy was deliberate. I scrambled to my feet and waited with a fireball in my right hand as the creature made a u-turn. When the target was close enough, I released the fire. The pterodactyl screeched in anguish as it glided over my head and then made a sharp turn gradually descending into the trees.

I resumed walking on the unoccupied trail while flicking the Zippo open and shut along the way. At some point, I held a small amount of fire in my palm and pocketed the lighter. The little flames danced and continued their moves as they grew per my influence. The untouchable ball was the size of a kickball when I held two hands under it as it grew and grew. The ball split into two per my instructions and then stretched way above my head. Eventually, I made the tips connect and then shrink. Both of my palms remained open as the fire was shaped like a pipe. Grinning in anticipation of my next move, I turned to face the trees. I shoved the pipe of fire forward and then spread my arms apart stretching the pipe even longer to hit more trees in one shot.

_Hello there, pyromaniac. I've missed you._

My self-realization was interrupted by a roar that was so loud I thought the source was right next to me. Turning my head in its direction, it bent halfway and bellowed again. Then I heard a similar sound, but it didn't come from the Tyrannosaurus I was looking at. As my head turned to the opposite side, the rest of my body remained very still. To my left, another T-Rex.

Delighted, I rubbed my hands together and smirked, "Gnarly. A threesome. Exactly my style, Scott." I called existing flames to my palms and then looked down at them. Both dinosaurs started charging towards me. Spreading my arms like an airplane, fire streamed out from both sides like flame throwers. Unaffected by the heat of the flames, the dinosaurs were annoyed but continued to push forward so I intensified the strength. The force of the flames kept them at bay; however, they were persistent as they attempted to push forward. I felt the adrenaline kick in boosting my ability. Determined not to waste any of it, I'd give my next offensive move everything I have left. A warrior battle cry escaped my lips as I let the extra power loose. The eruption of fire from each side spilled out of me like waves knocking down the archaic beasts simultaneously. Threats defeated; however, my power didn't stop there. It continued to pour out and engulf me until I was a human torch. Unable to control it, I clenched my fists, tilted my head back and screamed. The ground erupted around me. Shortly after, the fiery explosion fanned out like a nuclear bomb, disturbing and knocking down everything in its path. My screams became hysterical laughter. Everything around me was ablaze in glorious hues of yellow, orange, and red. While a beautiful sight, I was grinning from ear to ear because I no longer needed an external source to activate my gift.

The prehistoric scenery disappeared. Panels in various spots slid open and out came extinguishers. I stopped laughing when three directed themselves at me, but before they could attempt to put me out I swiftly disabled them. "NO!" I shouted and then took out the rest of the fire safety hardware. "You can't contain me any longer!" I flung flames where the viewing window was supposed to be. Proving to be more of a tantrum rather than effective my focus and energy was redirected. I placed softball-sized fireballs around me—giving myself decent circumference—on the metal floor. Following my arms as they rose, they stretched into straight fiery beams above my head and beyond, purposely stopping a great distance away from the ceiling. The cage's function—to keep them away from me.

"Why are you hiding from me?" I demanded.

In the brief moment I allotted, no reply was given.

Still alone in the Danger Room, the next words of my mouth would be direct. I taunted, "Oh, hey, Bobby, how about a rematch? It's been long overdue . . . don'tcha th—"


	9. Unhinged to Zen

_The last thing I remember . . ._

_Wait. Why is something so simple . . . difficult?_

My vision was fuzzy. I grabbed at the semi-soft material on either side of my body, which didn't set off any cause for immediate alarm in my mind.

_**\- An undetermined amount of time later -** _

I must've dozed off at some point because when my eyelids lifted I was able to see perfectly.

"Delightful," I muttered sarcastically after taking a quick scan of my surroundings. "I'm back where I started." My head fell back hard onto the pillow. Once again I lay in a medical bed with complimentary bounds fastened to all of my limbs—I'd rather get a soft plush robe or mint. I'm easy to accommodate. Comfort was definitely lacking in this establishment.

My mind reverted back to the original unsolved issue since I couldn't do anything about the restraints. As soon as that thought crossed my mind, a wide grin parted my lips. I stared at my open palm, but nothing flashed before my eyes. Not even a spark.

Doubt swirled around in my head. _Was I confusing fantasy for reality? No way; I'm not creative enough._

I heard a buzzing noise and the lock drop from the door, then seconds after that, a small group entered my room. The bunch included: The leader, muscle, and Chilly Willy.

Certainty shoved the doubt. Remembering, I let out an over-exaggerated gasp, and whined emphasizing every word, "You didn't let me finish my sentence."

I tried again, full concentration aimed at the palm of my hand. It was the only solution I could come up with to get myself out of this predicament.

"Stop it, Pyro. You're going to give yourself a migraine," said Scott. "It's not going to work no matter how hard you concentrate." He lifted the blanket and tossed it partially aside to reveal my right foot. Above the constraint on my ankle, there was a metal cuff that was the size of a house arrest tracking monitor. I could see a steady green light and a blinking blue light.

Knowing its purpose without having to ask, anger flared as I pulled at the arm restraints. "You can't keep me like this forever! You cannot fix me! I am not broken! I've evolved! This is who I am . . . like it or not!" My gaze locked tight on eyes I couldn't see. The restraints wouldn't budge so I gave up and relaxed.

Civil. Yeah, I could be civil. Sighing, I continued calmly, "Just let me go. You'll never have to see me again."

The leader took a moment before responding. "That's not true and you know it, Pyro," Scott said, firmly. "You're right, though, we can't keep you like this. However, we have the resources to contain you and you're well aware of that too."

 _Shiiit._ My facial expression remained neutral though I was fuming mentally. I didn't want to be sedated for the rest of my life.

"Furthermore," continued Scott, "I refuse to believe this is who you are."

Uncontrollably, I started cracking up. I'm not sure if it's due to the drugs in my system or to get under his skin. Probably both.

"Scott, may I speak with you privately?" Bobby Drake asked over my laughter. He nodded and all three men exited.

Behind the closed door, there was an argument. I couldn't hear specifics but it sounded like it was between Ice Prick and Captain Prick. My guess: My former buddy didn't want me to remain in his vicinity; whereas his superior felt liable.

When the back and forth was over, the loser stalked into my room alone. I smiled and then opened my mouth to speak, but he didn't give me the chance.

"You can't manipulate me so shut your trap or I'll seal it shut for you," he threatened.

 _Damn. He's not playing around. Sounds like I ought to obey._ However, my Cheshire Cat smile remained intact.

"I don't fucking want you here!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. Nothing new. Thus, I'm not surprised in the slightest. "You're a danger to my family and everyone at this school. I can't believe—" Bobby turned around swiftly as if he was looking for something to hit or throw to release the rage. With nothing in reach to break, his fist and half of his forearm froze over before striking the wall.

Even if I were allowed to articulate . . . I wouldn't know what to say. It wouldn't be comforting words, that's for sure. I sure as hell didn't want to be here either. I had the exact same feeling when I was younger. _Nothing has changed_ , I thought somberly.

Besides broken pieces of plaster hitting the floor, there was silence. If he really knew me—which, I know he does—he'd know I have to break the silence, warning aside. "Feel better now?" I asked.

"No." He didn't look at me. "It would've been satisfying had it been your face instead."

If that was meant to sting, it didn't. I couldn't care less. I smirked, and said, "If you did, it would be the cheapest shot in history! I'm bound and literally powerless. Plus, I'm still recovering from serious head trauma, my face included." I shifted slightly in the bed. "Did I mention I was _powerless_?" That detail bothered me the most. A brief moment of power snuffed almost immediately. My lips quirked at the fond memory.

Bobby crouched by the wall at the far side of the room near the door and then sat. One leg rested Indian style along the floor, the other was bent over the other like an upside-down V. Both of his hands rested on his knee as he stared at the ring with so many vows attached to it. "An organization attempted to enslave mutants. We, the X-Men, stopped them."

I glanced at the shame on my ankle. "Hypocrites."

He snorted. "Of course you would say that," Bobby said, tiredly with a sigh. "You're like a broken record. Or Holden Caulfield."

"Phonies," I mocked jokingly. Then I slightly pushed myself up in the bed to see him better. "Ironic . . . using their gadget on me that was built with hatred."

"And fear," he mumbled quietly. His gaze finally met mine. "It wasn't an easy decision, but it was the _only_ option. I meant it when I said you were a danger to everyone." He paused, adding, "Including yourself." To let that sink in, no words were exchanged for a few moments. "Dude, you were on such a massive power trip . . . it was quite frightening." He stood up and leaned his back against the wall. "Sure, it must've sucked growing up here and not being allowed to use your gift unless you were in the danger room as where others didn't have restrictions." He took a breath. "Professor X never meant it as a punishment."

"Can you blame me for being power-hungry when I finally get a taste of what I've been craving?"

Ignoring my statement, he continued, "You resented him for it . . . probably still do and you don't even realize it."

My gaze on him lingered. To me, Bobby sounded like a robot unable to form his own ideas. I decided not to challenge. Ignoring instead, I said, "Just look at me and absorb the whole picture, Bobby." There was no mistaking my tone for anything but serious.

He did as I asked but I couldn't read his expression. After a few moments, he exited without another word. When the door clicked shut, the lock engaged, and the buzzer went off.

"The resentment is justified," I whispered to the empty room. _Why am I the only one that sees the underlying reason?_

It wasn't until the excitement died down and alone that I noticed a TV in the upper left corner. The remote sat on top of the table next to me. When I reached for it, my hand was jerked back suddenly. I mentally cursed at myself for forgetting about my current limited limb mobility. Sleeping wasn't an option given that I was wide awake, so instead, I thought about the honest one-on-one talk with Drake and my future.

_I'm not the problem, I've never been. They are. Why can't they just leave me be? Why am I always on a tight leash like a misunderstood Pit Bull? Did I really reach maniac the other day in the Danger Room or were they overreacting? Ugh, and I can't do anything about the frustration that's starting to spill over because I can't get off of this damn bed!_

My head hit the plastic headrest with a thunk. If I did that more and harder they'd come running. But I also knew that would guarantee sedation and isolation, which would land me in a position I'm trying to avoid. Craaap. Why did I cackle like I'm the Joker earlier? I took a deep breath through my nose then let it out slowly through my mouth and repeated that method a few times. Zen. Yeah, I could use some of that.

I spotted a brown spider at the far side of the ceiling above the door. Its pace slow and steady—only humans always seem to be in a rush. When it reached the center of the ceiling, the spider stopped. "Got a light?" I asked it and I laughed immediately after. "That's right. I don't need one anymore but I could really use a cigarette." The arachnid remained in the same spot. I shrugged my shoulder and I felt the need to explain, "Hey, I have to entertain myself somehow and you're all I've got currently. Could use a little help with this." I lifted my right leg as much as I could with the restraint and rotated my ankle. I waited a moment, and said, "Didn't think so." Its black eyes flashed yellow; all six or eight of them. I blinked rapidly a few times, thinking I was seeing things. It still hadn't moved. I peered at it, trying to refrain from blinking to see if its black eyes would change color again. It didn't. I lowered my body just enough so my head could lay on the pillow instead of the uncomfortable headrest. I closed my eyes for a few moments and when I reopened them the spider was gone. I checked every wall that I was able to view but I didn't catch sight of any brown spots with eight legs. _What kind of drugs did they give me? And how much?_

Possible hallucinations and distractions aside, I had to focus on reflection. If not now when?

Life. If I had a therapist, that's where I'd start. I understand that life isn't fair. No one said it was. We just think it's supposed to be. But my life has never been fair. I guess you could say I should be used to it by now. Maybe I was. But now that I regained some memories and seeing as where I ended up—neutralized and fastened to a bed—that understanding that I've come to terms with and was numb to is now a freshly opened wound that's bleeding profusely. It stings. A single tear rolled out from the corner of my eye and it slowly continued a path down my cheek to my jawline. I turned my head to the side and used my shoulder to wipe it away. Don't be fooled. I'm not sad, just angry. However, anger alone won't get me very far. It's just an emotion, but it can be used as fuel. Usually, that emotion fuels people to make dumb decisions because they act on impulse without thinking. I won't make that mistake. I can't afford to, frankly. Life isn't fair but I'll force it to balance in my favor. I'm overdue.

Still confined to this fucking bed, though. I groaned loudly, unable to do much else. Patience training starts at this very moment. It's an important skill that I've never bothered with in the past but it's something I am capable of changing.

* * *

It was quiet and dull until—to my surprise—a brunette appeared in my room. She immediately apologized. "I was never here," she said, turning on her heel.

She was halfway through the wall by the door when I managed to verbalize, "Wait."

Stopping short, she turned to face me and took a step forward so that her body was fully in the room.

"I've been alone in here for quite a while. I don't even know what time it is." She didn't offer me that information. Frankly, it wasn't important to me, just a fact. "Hold on . . . I remember you," I told her, trying to stall while I was thinking. After a few heartbeats, it came to me. "Kitty, right?"

She nodded and said, "Katherine, but I prefer Kitty."

"Are you a spy?" I teased, flashing her a smile.

Her lips parted to mirror my smile as she crossed her arms over her chest. "If I were, that would be classified information."

I cocked my head to the side. "So what are you doing exactly?" She regarded me. Probably deciding whether or not to answer. "You don't have to answer, Kitty. Just stalling," I told her sincerely. I noticed she didn't seem to be uncomfortable which I found intriguing. Did I achieve Zen? Probably not but I'll give meditation credit for keeping me grounded, currently. "Could you do me a solid and hand me the TV remote before you go?"

She looked up. A slight smile tugged the corner of her mouth. "One sec," she told me and then went through the wall. Only her hands came out by the camera and she pulled on a wire. Her hands disappeared and I flinched, startled when she popped out a foot or so from me. She grabbed the remote and put it directly into my hand. Kitty disappeared into the wall by the camera and fixed what she'd altered. When she was done, she waved, and her hand is the last I saw of her.

Pushing the power button on the remote, the TV clicked to life. An animated program appeared on the screen. Normally, that type of show would be ideal but I kept changing channels until I found the news. Though my four-walled world was currently controlled, I was curious to find out what was going on with the rest of the world. After the weather report and a segment about a reality show finale recap, I channel surfed again. I stopped on the History Channel. The title of the show grabbed my attention: Forged in Fire. It was a competition type of show. Even with my unique skill, I would never be able to accomplish what the contestants are able to do with just metal, hand tools, electric tools, some water, and flame. Historic weapons are amazing and some even beautiful. So beautiful I'd imagine it was a great honor to be slain with its sharp blade! During the commercial break, I pressed the info/display button which informed me that it was close to six in the evening. As the winner was announced, he made a short comment about the win, and then the credits rolled. At the bottom of the screen, the words BREAKING NEWS rolled from right to left. I pressed the appropriate digits on the remote to go to that station directly. Those same two words in all capital letters were at the bottom. As I suspected it involved my kind. Mutants. My right hand tightened around the remote. The Registration Act was back on the table and the way they were talking, it sounded to me as if it was very close to a done deal.

**x - X - x - X - x**

I heard all of the sounds to indicate I had a visitor. The door opened. I narrowed my eyes at the guest with a food tray in hand. I wasn't going to be fed like a baby. Not by her. Not in this condition because it was far from sexy.

"Oh, don't pout, Pyro." The door closed behind Rogue and I pressed the off button to the TV.

"I'm not."

She slightly smiled at me as she strode to my right side. "Your words don't match your muttered tone." Rogue placed the tray on my lap. Then she undid the restraint from my right wrist. "Only one is allowed off. I figured you'd prefer your dominant hand." She lifted the cover from the tray. The comforting scent of the food hit my nostrils quickly. My stomach rumbled as if it had been awoken.

"Brilliant," I replied sarcastically.

She tensed. "I'm not the bad guy here," she said defensively.

Arching an eyebrow, I asked, "Are you sure about that?" I took some bites of food and swallowed. "It seems to me your husband is just parroting what he's told."

She walked around to my left side and rolled the cushioned stool with a short backrest to the other side to sit. "You're only saying that because you didn't like what you heard."

I scoffed and put the plastic fork down that had meat speared to it to drink some water.

She gathered her hair with her hands and pushed it over her left shoulder. "At least you aren't whiny anymore. What? You thought I was going to feed you?"

Keeping my expression neutral and unreadable for her question, I put the cup down, picked up the fork again, and continued to eat my dinner. Rogue kept her eyes on me the whole time but she didn't indicate initiating any further conversation. I opened my mouth to say something sexist that would get her angry but decided against it. I can't alienate everyone and I might need her on my side later. I wondered if her husband knew she was here with me and if they argued about it. She didn't appear to be distracted or upset; thus, I settled the thought and decided he didn't know. I smiled to myself which caught her attention as I knew it would.

"What?" she asked.

I probably looked like a smug asshole but I couldn't help it. "Nothin'," I answered neutrally. I finished everything on the tray except for a few pieces of onions. Placing the fork on the tray, I then ran my fingers through my hair while I had the opportunity to do so. She didn't press me to answer. "Do you know how long they are going to keep me like this?" Then I thought I should be specific and added, "Isolated and confined?"

Her eyes met mine. "I don't know, Pyro. Honest." She took the tray from my lap and put it on the small dresser where the cover was. "I believe they want to see how mentally stable you are before coming to any decisions. I know what happened in the Danger Room. I sincerely believe it's something you can't resolve on your own. Do you agree?"

I turned my head to glare at the door. "I'm fine."

"You may be fine now but you're not fine." Then she pointed out again that it was another thing I didn't want to hear. I heard her perfectly. To get me to agree is a different story.

We sat in silence. I stretched and moved my right arm in different directions. It popped when I pulled it across my torso to my left.

"So tell me about Lexi?" I said, genuinely interested. Apparently, I had a soft spot for the Squirt.

Her face warmed instantly followed by an unmistakable smile that beamed admiration. Rogue inhaled before speaking so that told me she had a mouthful to say. "She's the best. Absolutely the best. She listens and offers to help with anything and everything. Her favorite color is purple and she wants a dog very badly. She reminds me every day like I've forgotten."

"Does she ever ask for a sibling?"

"No," she said, "I think it's because it's never just the three of us. You know?"

I nodded. To some, the Xavier Institute was one huge, extended family so I understood why Lexi didn't think to ask for a brother or sister because she has many that don't share her personal space, unlike a sibling.

"Lexi likes to draw, color, and make Logan play dolls with her."

Incredulous, I said, "And does he?"

"Oh, yes. He doesn't use the two-letter word with her."

My eyes narrowed at her in sustained disbelief so I asked Rogue with a straight face, "What does your daughter have on him? She must have something to blackmail him with."

Smile still intact, Rogue went on, "She doesn't give Bobby or me a hard time." She chuckled. "Ok. She makes a fuss about vegetables—anything green, mostly."

As she continued to gush about her daughter, I wondered what the Squirt's future would look like. The probability that she contracted the x-gene from Bobby is high.

Following her shifting gaze, as she talked, it landed on the cracked wall. She didn't inquire and I didn't offer context. "I don't know what I'd do without Lexi in my life," she told me after wrapping up about her daughter, her gaze back to me. "Any decision I make, I have to keep her in mind because what I do affects her."

I processed what she said and I also detected what she didn't say. It's not just her choices . . . it's the X-Men's too.

Flashing her a wry smile, I said, "Is that the only reason as to why you're nice to me?"

She rolled her chair closer to me and put both of her hands on my right arm. Then she moved her head slightly and our gazes locked. "I thought it was obvious that I truly care for your wellbeing but you're severely headstrong." Her eyes shifted for a moment. She resisted the urge to (playfully, I assume) do something to my head.

"My power is suppressed. Aren't the bounds overkill?" I asked, disbelief evident from my tone.

I couldn't tell if her eyes showed worry or sadness when she told me no. Rogue's answer to my question was undoubtedly sincere. Shit. I was going to be in here for a while. As that realization set in, I made myself as comfortable as I could get. Lastly placing my recently described "hard-head" onto the pillow. I wondered why she was able to get through my thick skull when it seemed like nobody else could penetrate. I eyed her thoughtfully.

"John . . ."

I didn't correct her. There was plenty of time for thinking when alone. Steering the conversation away from me, I told her about Forged in Fire instead.

When it was time to secure my right wrist with the restraint, I didn't give her a hard time.


End file.
